


Building

by kate_the_reader



Series: Bob [3]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Bob deserves better, Developing Relationship, First time with someone, M/M, Romance, the past shapes the present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: "Dave just looks like he likes the look of Bob, not like he’s a bit scared of Bob. Or like Bertie’s friends looked, like they were trying to decide if Bob was worth whatever price was named."Handsome Bob has pined for One Two and experimented with posh Bertie but neither experience was really what he wanted.Someone he has just met may be a better fit.





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up exactly at the end of [Bertie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7584550), and features Dave, the original character introduced there. 
> 
> mycitruspocket brainstormed with me, beta read this as it developed and helped make it better.  
> Chasingriver gave me helpful feedback and insightful comments. Thank you to both of them, as always.

**Saturday**

Dave’s easy to talk to, not like Bertie. Even though it felt like control when he had Bertie on his knees, turns out all _he_ wanted was what he could take from Bob. Showing off his bit of rough. Not interested in Bob. Well, fuck him, Bob’s not going to think about him and his posh git friends now anyway. 

Bob makes Dave laugh with heavily edited stories about some of the dumb shit One Two gets up to, stupid stuff from the Speeler. And the more he looks at Dave, the more he wants to. Dave’s looking at him with a bit of heat in his eyes, too. But it’s not like Bertie. Dave just looks like he likes the look of Bob, not like he’s a bit scared of Bob. Or like Bertie’s friends looked, like they were trying to decide if Bob was worth whatever price was named.

He doesn’t want to leave. He’s getting pretty drunk, what with the drinks before at the Speeler, and at Bertie’s, but he doesn't want to leave alone.

Finally, Dave touches Bob’s arm, says: “D’you want to … shall we?” 

“Yes,” says Bob, standing up.

“Hang on,” says Dave, laughing. “You don’t know what I was asking.” 

“Back to yours?” says Bob, “Sure. Yes.”

“Well, yes,” says Dave, standing as well. “We better go if we want to get the Tube.” 

They walk to the station, not talking, now. The train is packed, and they’re wedged in tight. As it pulls into Acton Town, Bob staggers and falls back against Dave. “Sorry!” he says, as Dave palms his arse, raising an eyebrow.

They leave the station and turn down into a leafy street. “I’m down here,” says Dave. 

‘Here’ is in a neat, ordinary semi, with a white van pulled up in front.

Bob thought he was calm, but he’s not, now the beer’s worn off a bit. The night has been like driving a car too fast on a wet road. He said yes to Dave because what else was he going to say? No, and go home alone and think about fucking Bertie and his fucking stupid friends?

Dave unlocks the door and they step into the hall. It’s quiet, and clean, and calm. Dave turns to him and runs a hand down his cheek. He’s taller than Bob. Not as tall as One Two, but Bob has to raise his eyes a bit.

“I’ve had enough to drink,” says Dave. “Cup of tea?”

“No,” says Bob. “Can we just …?” He glances up the stairs. “Can we get on with it?”

“Get on with it?” says Dave.

“Yes. Please?” says Bob. He wishes his pulse would stop banging in his temples. “Just …” He puts his hands on Dave’s arse, thrusts his hips a bit roughly.

“Bob,” says Dave, “hang on!”

But Bob steps out from where he’s standing against the wall and heads for the stairs. “Up here?” he says. 

Dave follows him. The bedroom door is standing open. Bob walks over to the bed and starts getting undressed. Dave’s not like Bertie. That had been … Bob’s not sure. But this is different. He knows how this goes. He pushes his jeans and pants down and turns around. Dave’s standing in the doorway, but he steps forward. It always works.

Bob grabs him, rubs up against him again. Dave swallows. “What do you …?” he says.

Bob pushes him towards the bed, gets down on his knees and reaches for his belt. He rucks Dave’s shirt up, gets his jeans open and gets his hand in. Dave is pretty hard already. Bob glances up at him. Dave is frowning slightly but Bob rubs his hand over his cock and Dave gasps. He dips his head, twists his hand into Dave’s pants. This is easy. Bob has done this plenty. 

Dave’s hands drop to Bob’s shoulders, but he doesn’t push his head down. His fingers are rough, but they’re not demanding. “Bob,” he says, voice catching.

Bob opens his mouth, takes Dave in. He’s good at this.

He _is_ good. Doesn’t take long before Dave is pushing at his shoulder, pulling out. Bob swallows, lifts his chin, looks straight at Dave and drops his hand to his own cock.

“No,” says Dave, but he makes no move and it’s too late anyway. Bob comes in his hand. He sags on his heels, looks up again. Dave is frowning. 

“What?” says Bob, wiping his hand on his discarded boxers and standing up. “You didn’t get what you wanted?” He is standing over Dave, looking down.

“Did _you_?” says Dave.

“Sure,” says Bob, stepping away, “yeah.” He turns for the door, heads for the bathroom.

“You stupid fucker,” he says to his reflection as he washes his hands. 

“Well,” he says as he steps back into the bedroom, “I’ll be off then.” He bends and picks up his jeans, steps into them. Dave is still sitting on the bed, but he gets up now and comes over. He grabs Bob’s hand, stops him from doing up his jeans. 

“Stop,” he says. “Just stop, Bob. Slow down.” He runs his hand up Bob’s chest. “Really?” he says, “that’s all?”

“You up for another round?” says Bob, glancing down. “Nah? Then I’ll go.” He shrugs off Dave’s hand and reaches for his T-shirt. He just wants to get away. From Dave’s frown, from this car crash of an evening.

“I thought …” says Dave, “I thought we were getting on.”

So had Bob. Until he fucked it up. He really needs to get out before he does something even more stupid, like crying. He stuffs his boxers into his pocket and grabs his trainers. He is sitting on the bottom stair putting them on when Dave comes down behind him.

“Bob? At least give me your number?” he says.

“Why?” says Bob, standing up and turning round to face Dave. He has to really look up.

“Don’t be daft, you know why.”

And the thing is, Bob doesn’t want this to end here, just like so many other times. So he tells him the number. But he turns and lets himself out anyway. 

He walks fast, back up towards the station. The Tube’s closed but there’s a bus stop. He leans in the shelter waiting for a night bus.

“You stupid fucker,” he says again and bangs his head against the panel. “You stupid, stupid fucker.”

Finally, the bus arrives and he gets on. It’ll be ages before he’s home. He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. He really thought this whole evening was going to be different.


	2. Sunday

**Sunday**

His phone ringing jolts him awake. He reaches for it, doesn’t even look at the number. “What?”

“Bob?”

“Yeah.” He sits up. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Dave.”

It had been almost four by the time he finally got home and fell into bed. He has no idea what time it is now.

“Dave?”

“From last night.”

“I know who. Why?”

“This a bad time? I woke you up.”

Bob rubs his hand down his face, up the back of his head.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “S’okay.” The light is slanting in the window. It’s afternoon.

“Bob?” says Dave. “I thought … I don’t think that went how we wanted. Not how I wanted. Not how you wanted.”

“Hmm,” says Bob. He can’t trust himself to respond. 

“Let’s try again,” says Dave, “start again.”

“I dunno,” says Bob. “I’m busy.”

“Really?” says Dave, and Bob can tell he doesn’t buy it.

“Well … not right _now_.”

“Thought so. I need to check a job out your way. Want to come with me?”

“Go stand around a building site? Fuck off,” says Bob, but he puts no heat into it. There’s silence on the line. “Alright,” he says. “I suppose.”

“Won’t take long, then we can talk,” says Dave.

“Alright,” says Bob again, and tells him his address.

“Right,” says Dave. “See you in about an hour.”

Bob gets out of bed and staggers to the shower. He studies himself in the mirror, decides not to shave.

When the doorbell rings almost exactly an hour later, he’s standing in the kitchen drinking a mug of tea.

Dave is on the doorstep in a thick jacket. It’s turned cold; Bob grabs a jacket.

“Hi,” says Dave. His smile is tentative.

“Hi.”

The white van is double parked in the street. “D. Parker Building Renovations” it says on the side. 

Dave gets in, leans across and pops the lock.

The interior is spotless, not even a crisp packet. 

“How come you’re going to a site on a Sunday afternoon?” says Bob.

“I need to talk to the clients, it's a house renovation and they aren't there in the week.”

“You own the company?” says Bob, stalling, delaying, deflecting. He doesn’t want to talk about last night.

“Yes, I do.” Dave tells him a bit about his small company, his ‘lads’. He sounds proud of his success.

At the house, he says: “D’you want to come in? I'll say you're my assistant.”

“Nah,” says Bob, he’s seen enough posh houses recently to last him a while. “I'll stay here.” He slouches down and closes his eyes. Dave touches his knee briefly. “Okay, won't be long,” he says. “We can go for a pint afterwards.”

His phone rings as he dozes. It’s Mumbles. “Where are you, Bob?” he says.

“Out,” says Bob. “D’you need me?”

“No, no,” says Mumbles. “Just wondered. You coming in later?”

“Not tonight, mate,” says Bob, “tomorrow. Anything on?”

“Not really,” says Mumbles, “Ta-ra!”

“Bye,” says Bob, closing his eyes again.

“Right,” says Dave, getting in a bit later. “Let’s get a pint.”

“’Kay,” says Bob. “I’m bloody starving, though.”

“Well, let’s eat too,” says Dave easily.

Bob’s not sure he will be able to stand a whole meal. If things start going badly. He’s not even sure why he agreed to come.

Dave drives them to one of those sort of posh pubs Bob’s lot wouldn’t be caught dead in, normally. He doesn’t seem fazed though, so Bob pretends it’s fine.

He orders a burger and accepts a pint.

They’re sitting in a booth and the place is quiet. 

“Bob,” says Dave, when they’ve both drunk about half, “what the hell happened? I thought we were getting on and then you … then you … I don’t even know what that was.”

Bob’s fiddling with his beer mat; he glances up at Dave, but he can’t meet his eyes for more than a second. Dave’s leaning forward, frowning. Bob slouches down, shrugs. “You got off, didn’t you?” he mutters.

“I did,” says Dave, quietly. “Did you actually enjoy that? Can’t say I did, really.”

“Sorry,” says Bob, tearing the beer mat into bits. Dave’s right. Bob fucked it up. He _really_ doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“Sorry?” says Dave. “Don’t apologise.”

“Well, what do you want?” says Bob. “I fucked up. The sex was lousy, what more do you want from me?” His voice catches. “Ah, _fuck_!” he says, turning his face away and blinking.

“Bob,” says Dave, reaching out and taking his hand. Bob flinches, but Dave won’t let him pull away. “Did you really think that’s what I wanted? To get off and then watch you walk out?”

“Isn’t it usually?” says Bob. He glances up again, tries not to look away. “That’s what guys want. No strings.” He pulls his hand back.

The waiter arrives with the food. Bob is really bloody hungry and he eats silently, not looking at Dave. He pushes his plate away when he’s finished. Dares to look up at Dave again.

“No, Bob, it isn’t,” says Dave, as if no time has passed. “It’s not what I want.”

“You don’t even know me!” says Bob. 

“But I’d like to,” says Dave.

Bob laughs. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” says Dave. He drains his beer and signals for the bill.

They are quiet in the van. Bob doesn’t know what to say anyway. At Bob’s place, Dave says: “Good night. I’ll ring you.” He brushes his hand down Bob’s thigh.

“Don’t you want …?” says Bob.

“Not tonight,” says Dave.

So Bob gets out of the van and goes inside. 

Later, in bed, he finds Dave’s number and sends a text. “I am sorry I fucked it up.”

“Ok,” is the reply, leaving Bob to wonder what the hell that might mean.


	3. Monday

**Monday**

One Two looks at him oddly when he walks in on Monday. 

“What?” he says. “Don’t start.” He doesn’t want to talk about his weekend. The TV’s showing a match he missed yesterday, so he concentrates on that till it’s time to go out. 

After a day of driving around, trying not to think, finally he can go home. He shrugs off One Two’s attempt to get him into the ongoing card game.

“Places to be, Bobby-boy? People to see?” 

“Nah, just sick of you lot,” he says, from the doorway.

What he wants is to see Dave. That surprises him. Normally, he avoids that sort of confrontation. It’s always worked before.

He types a text: “Can I come over?” His thumb hovers over the send button, but he taps it quickly before he can think about it too much. And then kicks himself. What the fuck will Dave think? He’s home by the time he gets an answer. “In a meeting. 7?”

He showers and eats and tries to leave in good time. Way over the other side of the city isn’t an area he knows well. He gets lost, arrives at Dave’s at half-past.

He almost just drives past, his gut twisting with embarrassment, but he forces himself to find a parking space and ring the bell. Dave has a tea towel in his hands when he opens the door. 

“Hello,” he says, stepping back.

“Hi,” says Bob, looking at him and then back down at his feet. “This okay?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t have said yes if it wasn’t, Bob.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” says Bob. “What did you mean? Okay? Last night,” he says in a rush.

“Come inside, Bob,” says Dave. He turns to lead the way, into an open living room and kitchen. “Would you like a beer?” he says, at the fridge. There are pots on the stove. 

“Yeah. Yes please,” says Bob. He wishes Dave would stop, look at him. Answer him.

Dave hands him a beer and a glass and turns back to the stove, turns down a burner.

“Dave? What did you mean?” says Bob.

“You apologised. I accepted. Even though I’d rather you told me why, a bit better than last night. If you can.”

Bob really doesn’t want to, but he started this, so he has to try to finish.

“I panicked, okay? I didn’t know what you wanted. Fuck, I didn’t know what I wanted.” He looks at Dave, who’s leaning against the counter.

“Come over here, Bob,” he says, but it’s not a command. “I’ll show you what I want.”

Bob puts down the beer and steps over in front of Dave. Looks up at him. 

Dave reaches out and runs his hand down Bob’s face, round to the back of his neck. Bob takes another step forward, pushes his head back into Dave’s hand.

“Now you get it,” says Dave, pulling his head forward and kissing him, lightly. “That so hard?” he says.

Bob shakes his head, presses forward again and kisses back, harder. He twitches his hips forward, but Dave pushes gently at him.

“Slow down, Bob.”

“What, why?”

“Well, for one thing, dinner will burn.” Dave laughs and steps aside, leaving Bob a bit stranded. “And I’m tired. And you’re not ready.”

“Oh, I am,” says Bob. He’s half-hard.

“Well, then, I’m not.”

Bob turns away and picks up his beer. Dave is stirring one of the pots. “Have you eaten?” he says.

“Yeah. Smells good, though.”

“Eat something anyway,” says Dave. He puts down his spoon and comes over to where Bob is standing. The kitchen area is open and bright. The counters are clear. Behind them is a table and then a sofa. “We’ll eat and we can talk.” 

Bob is peeling the label off his beer bottle. “Okay,” he says. 

Dave reaches out and stills his nervous hand. “Come sit down.” He keeps hold of Bob’s hand and leads him over to the sofa; sits and pulls Bob down next to him. 

“It’s nice here,” says Bob, “It’s so quiet. Did you do this?” he says, looking round the open room.

“Yes,” says Dave. He has his arm along the back of the sofa. “It’s the sort of thing I do for clients. Standard stuff.”

Bob tips his head back, against Dave’s arm; his stomach clenches a bit. “’S nice,” he says.

They sit quietly. Dave rubs his hand up the back of Bob’s head, scratching though his hair, then gets up. “The pasta will be done,” he says.

Bob looks up at him and Dave smiles. “I made extra, you know.”

Bob follows him and watches as he drains pasta and mixes in the delicious-smelling sauce, fills two bowls with it and takes them over to the table. “Grab the forks, won’t you,” he says. “They’re in that drawer.” He nods in the direction.

The food is good, and Bob eats it all, in spite of the eggs he had at home.

“How’d you learn to cook?” he asks.

“From books and TV,” says Dave.

“Get out! Really?”

“Yes,” says Dave. “Delia Smith.”

Bob’s heard of her. Posh housewife type.

“And Gordon Ramsay.”

“I can’t. Not really. I mean, fry-ups. Beans on toast. I’ve done those since I was six,” says Bob. He looks down at the table, gathers spilt salt on his fingertip.

“When your mum was at work?” says Dave.

“Yeah, or just out,” says Bob. “I ate a lot of beans on toast.” 

Dave reaches for his hand. Bob likes the feel of Dave’s hand. It’s rough, bigger than Bob’s. He turns his hand over and dares to really look at Dave. He’s smiling — and frowning a bit sadly. 

“What?” says Bob. “Beans aren’t so bad.” He laughs. “Once you stop burning them.” Dave laughs, too.

He gets up and carries the bowls to the sink. Bob follows, presses up behind him. 

“Ah, Bob,” says Dave. “Not tonight, eh?”

Bob groans, frustrated. “I can do a lot better, you know. Just let me …”

Dave turns around, runs his hands up Bob’s arms. “I’m sure you can. So can I. But not tonight.” He leans down and kisses Bob though. It will have to do. It seems pretty promising. Bob kisses back, nipping at Dave’s mouth. Until Dave slaps his arse and pushes him away. “Save it for next time, eh?” he says. And that’s _very_ promising.

It’s a long drive back home and Bob has a lot to think about.

Bob gets home from Dave’s thrumming with tension and possibility. Not tonight, Dave had said, save it for next time, he’d said. 

Bob can’t wait though. The memory of Dave’s rough hand, of his mouth, of his eyes, can’t be put away. 

His own hand is smaller, softer. He closes his eyes, but shame rises up ― Bob on his knees, looking up at Dave defiantly. That’s never felt wrong, before. Has never been wrong, before, and Bob still doesn’t really understand why it was wrong this time, just that it was. 

But he comes in his hand with a groan.

Next time. Next time will be better. Next time he’ll do better.


	4. Tuesday

**Tuesday**

He’s never wanted to see a guy again the way he wants to see Dave. It’s always been safer not to, somehow. What if they start asking too many questions, make demands on Bob’s time, turn out like Bertie?

But Dave is different. He thinks a lot about what Dave said, how he seemed to offer Bob something he’s never had. 

It was so quiet at Dave’s, so neat. So unlike anywhere Bob’s ever lived; clean and light and good-smelling. No loud neighbours yelling, no doors slamming, no television you can hear from next door.

The Speeler is always loud with the same conversations they’ve had over and over, the same petty disputes and stupid jokes, and Bob finds his attention wandering.

“Oi, Bob! You playing?” One Two’s voice is exasperated.

“What? Yeah, yeah.” Bob plays a card at random, earning himself a cuff across the back of the head. 

“Don’t play if you don’t want to, but don’t play shit, Bob,” says Fred.

He tosses his cards down and gets up. “Alright then, I’m off,” he says. He doesn’t look back, but he can feel their eyes following him, the weight of speculation on his back.

He sits in his car with his phone in his hand. He wants to text Dave. But he doesn’t want to seem needy. He never has. Has never let himself be. He wishes he knew what he was doing.

He drives aimlessly, but ends up in Dave’s street anyway. It’s the middle of the afternoon, too early for Dave to be home, and he can’t hang around outside for hours, like a locked-out kid.

He gets out of his car and starts walking. The streets are quiet, the trees dripping after a rain shower. He skirts a skip outside a house where builders are working, a van like Dave’s outside. It’s not Dave’s, thank god, he would look like a right stalker if it were. He circles back to Dave’s street in the dusk, gets back in his car, can’t decide what to do. He’s about to drive away when Dave’s van turns into the street, so now he’s been caught lurking, as he knew he would be when he didn’t just leave before. He waits while Dave parks and gets out of the van. He’s wearing dusty jeans and a plaid shirt. Bob’s stomach is fluttering. He gets out of his car; Dave looks round when he slams the door.

“Bob? What are you …? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call?”

Shit, this was a bad idea. Bob stands by his car. “I’m sorry. You’re probably busy. I’ll just go,” he says. He feels almost sick now. 

“Don’t be daft, Bob,” says Dave, coming over. “Hello,” he says. He touches Bob’s arm. “Come inside.”

“Okay,” says Bob, following Dave to the door.

Inside, Dave turns to him, a puzzled frown on his face.

“I just had to see you, okay?” says Bob.

“It’s okay, Bob. I’m glad you came. It’s fine.”

Bob’s looking down at his feet, he flinches a bit when Dave touches his shoulder, but he steps forward. “I want to try again,” he says, looking up at Dave. “Can we?”

“Yes,” says Dave, pulling him in, his hand on the back of Bob’s head. His shirt is dusty too and Bob can smell his sweat. His breath hitches and he tips his face into Dave’s shoulder. They’re just standing there in the hall, Dave’s other hand is at Bob’s back and his thumb is rubbing at the nape of his neck. Bob slips his hands round Dave’s waist, but he’s careful. He doesn’t want to push, this time. Wants to see what Dave does.

Dave just … holds him. It feels like a long time. Bob’s aware of his breath, shaky. Finally, Dave pushes his hand into Bob’s hair and tugs lightly. He lifts his face and Dave kisses him. It’s not demanding, it’s sort of soft, and Bob knows he shouldn’t press forward. Not now. He tries to return the kiss right, so Dave can tell he understands. 

“Mmm,” says Dave, but he breaks away. “I need a shower. Won’t be long,” he says. “Watch TV while you wait?”

“’kay.” 

Bob watches Dave climb the stairs. He’s got a good arse for a guy his age. Which Bob doesn’t know. As old as Archy? Older?

He goes into the living room but he doesn’t turn on the telly. He looks around the room, opens the kitchen cupboards, peers through the glass doors into the small back garden. There’s only one other room on the ground floor. He opens its door and finds an office, with a shelf of neat files. 

He goes upstairs, just as Dave comes out of the bathroom, naked. He really is fit, for an older guy. 

“Bob?” says Dave.

“Sorry.” He takes a step back down. “I’ll go.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Dave comes towards the stairs. “Bob? Come here,” he says. 

Bob’s looking at his feet, because looking up would mean looking straight at Dave’s cock. He wants to, but he can’t. A small choked sound escapes his mouth and he stands frozen on the step. He flinches when Dave’s hand lands on his bowed head. “Oh Bob,” says Dave, soft, amused. His fingers rub at the nape of Bob’s neck before he turns away. “I’ll get dressed,” he says. 

Bob takes a shuddering breath and goes downstairs. He’s standing by the kitchen counter when Dave comes in wearing trackie bottoms and a T-shirt. 

“Oh god,” says Bob.

Dave laughs. “Was it that bad?”

“What? No! Fuck no!” 

“Well then,” says Dave. “Beer?”

He hands over a bottle without waiting for an answer.

“Thanks.” He takes a long swallow, hoping to calm his twisting gut. 

Dave opens the fridge and gets out vegetables. 

“You going to help?” he says. 

Bob can’t believe how calm Dave is, when all he wants to do is run. “Okay.” 

Dave hands him a knife and and an onion. “Chop this?”

His hands shake a bit as he peels it and he has to wipe at his nose with the back of his hand as he chops.

“I am glad you came over,” says Dave, chopping carrots. “I was just a bit surprised.” 

“Sorry,” says Bob, “I didn't know I was coming. I was just driving, and then I was here …”

He’s finished the onion and doesn't know what to do next. 

“Thanks,” says Dave, scraping the onion into a pan. He turns to look at Bob. “Stop apologising.”

Bob has to rub at his eyes. It might be the onion. 

“Can you open this?” Dave hands him a tin of tomatoes and a can opener. 

“What are you making?” says Bob.

“We’re making a tomato sauce,” says Dave, adding the carrots and chopped celery to the pan and stirring it. 

Bob drinks beer, feeling calmer. The onions smell good and they’re making a quiet noise in the pan. It’s started raining again, pattering against the glass doors. 

“Add the tomatoes,” says Dave, so Bob pours them in. He’s never done anything like this. He wipes at his eyes again. It can't be the onions. 

“Hey,” says Dave. He turns from the stove. “Hey, Bob, shhh.” 

“I’ve never done this. Anything like this,” says Bob.

“Yeah, I thought so. It’s okay.” 

Bob’s pretty sure Dave’s not talking about tomato sauce, either. 

But then he says: “Break them up with the spoon.” 

“What?” 

“The tomatoes. Break them up with the spoon.” 

So Bob pokes at them.

“Try a bit harder, Bob,” says Dave, but he elbows him in a friendly way. Bob laughs. “I _am_ trying!”

“Yes,” says Dave. “I know you are.” He says it so seriously, it can’t just be about tomatoes, either. He takes the spoon, mashes the tomatoes a bit and turns the burner down low. He fills a big pot with water and puts it on. Leans against the counter and reaches for his beer. He holds out his hand to Bob. 

So he steps over and leans next to Dave. Their hips bump. 

“I know it’s hard, Bob. It’s not easy for me, either.”

Bob doesn't really know what to say, so he drinks his beer and listens to the rain. The pot lid rattles and Dave drops spaghetti into the boiling water, stirs the sauce again. 

“How do you know how to do it?” says Bob.

“This?” Dave gestures at the stove. “You have to pay attention, I suppose. You get to know what works.”

He comes back to stand next to Bob. “Same for this, I think,” he says, bumping his hip again. 

“I'm not sure I'm any good at it,” says Bob, “That I'll be any good.”

“We’ll figure it out,” says Dave. 

As they eat, Dave drops his free hand to Bob’s knee, which is jiggling under the table. Bob pushes his plate away as soon as he’s done.

“Don’t tell me to wait again,” he says. “I need … I want … I’ve got to show you …”

“You don't have to show me anything,” says Dave. “I want to, too. But you don’t have to prove anything.”

“Okay. But come on.” Bob stands up. He feels like he can’t quite catch his breath. “Come on. Please?”

Dave pushes his chair back and turns. Bob steps between his spread thighs, puts his hands on Dave’s shoulders, but he’s not sure what to do next. With Bertie … that had been fun, sort of. Not that Bob had ever done that before. Dave’s not like that though, so Bob had done what he knew, and that had been a disaster. So now he doesn’t know what to do. He waits to see what Dave wants. 

“Let’s go upstairs,” says Dave. Bob steps back and Dave stands up, slips his hand round to the back of Bob’s neck and rubs lightly, like he has before. Bob’s never been touched so much by another guy like this; he shuts his eyes and leans back into it. “Come on,” says Dave.

The bedroom is tidy, the bed smooth. Bob hesitates in the doorway. “Come here,” says Dave. He turns; Bob goes over and Dave reaches up, slips his hand inside the collar of his shirt, his thumb brushing the pulse in his neck. Bob can feel it tripping. 

He looks up; Dave is frowning slightly, but then he smiles and kisses Bob and his stomach clenches and he kisses back and this time Dave doesn’t push him away, lets Bob kiss him harder and Bob reaches up and grabs Dave’s shoulder and hangs on, digging his fingers into the muscle and he puts his other hand on Dave’s waist and slips it down, across his arse and Dave leans in more and puts his hands on Bob’s arse and pulls him in and they kiss standing in the middle of the bedroom and then it’s too much, almost, and Bob lets his head fall to Dave’s chest and Dave’s hands come up to his back and he’s holding Bob and Bob’s breath catches. He opens his eyes. Dave’s T-shirt is blue. Bob lifts his hand and lays it on Dave’s chest.

Dave nudges him towards the bed, so he steps back and feels the edge at the back of his knees. He sits down, looks up at Dave again, tipping his head back. He reaches for the top of Dave’s trackies, but Dave stops his hand. “What?” says Bob. “Why don’t you want―”

“If that’s what you want,” says Dave, “but not like last time, eh?”

Bob swallows. Nods. “Yeah. Okay. But let me … just let me.” He reaches for Dave again and of course Dave wants this, it’s obvious. He pushes Dave’s pants down and takes a moment to look. Dave’s hand is on the back of his head, but just like before, he’s not demanding. Bob leans forward, breathes in. 

Maybe what was wrong last time was how fast he did it. Maybe Dave wants him to go slower. Dave likes things slow. They have time, no one’s going to rattle the door and shout at them. He lifts Dave’s T-shirt, slides his hands up his stomach, up his chest, through the hair there. He looks up. Dave has a strange look on his face. He grabs Bob’s hand.

“Stop,” he says. 

“What? Why? I thought …”

“Aren’t you going to take your clothes off? Can I get on the bed?” 

He sits down next to Bob and reaches for his shirt buttons, pushes his shirt off his shoulders. “See?” he says, “I want to look too.”

“Sorry,” says Bob. Dave raises an eyebrow, shakes his head a tiny bit. Bob can’t help smiling. “Sorry,” he says again, grinning now. 

Dave pushes him down on his back and undoes his belt, the button of his jeans. It feels strange, not doing all the work. He likes it. Dave stands up and tugs his jeans down, kicks his own trackies off and pulls his T-shirt over his head. Bob’s leaning on his elbows, looking. Dave gives him a push and tugs the duvet down, making Bob stand up. He kicks off his trainers and jeans, peels off his socks. 

“Now,” says Dave, “where were we?” He gets on the bed, leans against the pillows. Bob crawls towards him. Dave likes slow, but Bob’s not sure how long he can make it last, they’re both so hard. He bites his lip, trying to distract himself a bit. Dave’s legs are sprawled open and Bob gets between them but he’s never done it quite like this.

He ducks his head and Dave’s cock, which he’d been too embarrassed to look at before is, _oh god_ , right there and Bob can’t wait, can’t go slow, even if he should. He slides his hands up Dave’s thighs, pressing them wider, and Dave’s hand comes up to the back of his head again, his thumb rubbing and his fingers spread wide. Bob hopes he isn’t going to hold him down. He’s always hated that. He doesn’t think Dave will do that, he didn’t, last time. It’s not like he doesn’t want to do this. Bob takes Dave in, he knows how to make this good. He knows Dave is close when he pushes on his shoulder, groaning, but Bob just shakes his head a little bit, he’s ready and he swallows and swallows, Dave’s hand on his head, fingers pulling at his hair. He tips his head, leaning against Dave’s thigh.

“Come up here?” says Dave, and Bob lifts his head and Dave cups his cheek and raises his chin and leans forward and kisses him. “Ah Bob,” he murmurs. Bob puts his hands on Dave’s shoulders, leaning his weight on him. Dave runs his hands firmly down his back, over his arse and back up, again and again. It’s mesmerising, almost. But Bob’s so hard and he twitches his hips, rutting against Dave.

Dave pushes his shoulder. “What do you want, Bob?”

No one has ever asked him, really. He shivers. _The roughness of Dave’s palm against his skin._ “Your hand?” he says.

“Oh, Bob,” says Dave. He flips them so Bob is looking up at him, Dave straddling him. Dave stretches to the nightstand, pulls the drawer open and comes back holding a bottle of lube. He doesn’t take his eyes off Bob as he squeezes it into his hand, leans down and kisses him again and takes Bob in hand.

Dave’s hand is big. It doesn’t feel so rough now. He strokes firmly, his other hand on Bob’s chest, thumb brushing his nipple. It’s almost too much, the way he’s looking at Bob, his hands, the sound of Bob’s breath, panting. He can feel how his fingers are digging into Dave’s thigh. He comes with a sob, has to turn his head away from Dave’s intent look. He flings his arm across his eyes, his chest heaving, he can’t catch his breath. Dave’s hands are still on him. He pushes at his thigh. Dave seems to understand. He moves off Bob, lies next to him. Slowly Bob feels his breath calming, his heart slowing from its frantic, scary, banging rhythm. He rubs the back of his hand across his eyes. “Jesus,” he says. Dave touches his side. Bob tries not to flinch away. But it’s too much, he rolls away, curling on himself.

The bed dips as Dave gets up. Bob rolls onto his back. He should get up too. Get dressed. Go home. Dave comes back into the room. Hands Bob a damp facecloth. “There you are,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Bob cleans himself up. Sits up.

“I’ll go now,” he says. 

“What?” says Dave. “Why? Stay. Won’t you stay?”

Bob’s stomach clenches with nerves. Stay? Sleep here with Dave?

“Stay?” he says.

“Yes,” says Dave. He takes the facecloth, drops it on the floor, reaches for the duvet and pulls it up. “Stay.” He lies down facing Bob.

“Um …” says Bob. Dave strokes down Bob’s chest, down his stomach. Bob flinches.

“What?” says Dave.

“It’s too much,” says Bob. He hates the way that sounds, but he can’t, he’s not used to being touched like this.

“Too much?” says Dave, frowning.

“Yes,” says Bob. “It’s just … too much.” He gets out of the bed, goes to the bathroom to pee and look at himself. “Don’t fuck this up again,” he says to himself in the mirror. He goes back into the bedroom. 

“Okay,” he says. He goes back over to the bed. “Okay.” He gets in.

“Okay,” says Dave. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” He doesn’t reach out for Bob again.

Bob lies down carefully on his back.

“Good night,” says Dave, turning off the lamp.

Bob can’t remember the last time someone said that to him.

He lies still, listening to Dave breathing. It’s started to rain again and he can hear it tapping on the window, when he’s not hearing his own breath. 

How can he tell Dave he’s never done this? How terrifying this is. Not even those crazy Russians are as terrifying as this is. That had been a lark, almost, with One Two and Mumbles. Here, he’s on his own, with no idea of what he’s doing. What he’s supposed to do. He pushes his hand across the space between him and Dave, touches him. Dave stirs and Bob freezes, but he doesn’t wake. Bob curls on his side, away from Dave, and closes his eyes. 


	5. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday

**Wednesday, Thursday, Friday**

When he wakes up, the light is grey and dim. It’s hard to tell what time it is. Dave is still in the bed. Bob has shifted and he’s much closer. It feels nice, after all. He closes his eyes, listening to the quiet morning sounds outside.

“Bob?”

Bob wakes up as Dave comes into the room carrying a mug. “I’ve got to go soon,” he says. “I made you a cuppa.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bob. “I was awake …”

“And then you weren’t,” says Dave, smiling. He sets the mug down and reaches out, but he seems hesitant.

“I’m sorry I was such a dickhead,” says Bob.

“What do you mean?” says Dave, but he doesn’t seem to need an answer. “I’ve got to get going. I’m going to get in the shower.”

Bob sits up and leans against the headboard, pulling his knees up and reaching for the tea. A proper builder’s cuppa. He can’t help smiling into the steam.

Dave comes back in, a towel round his hips, and Bob gets out of bed and walks up behind Dave, touches his shoulder tentatively. Dave turns. “Good morning,” he says, running the back of his hand down Bob’s cheek. “How did you sleep?”

“I don’t know,” says Bob. “I thought I didn’t, but I must have.” He smiles at Dave, tips his head into his hand. “I s’pose I did, after all. I’ve never done that.”

“Never?” says Dave, and kisses Bob, lightly. But he doesn’t ask for more. Just says: “Do you want to shower? But you’ll have to be quick.”

“You sure?” says Bob. “I will be quick.”

In the bathroom, Dave has laid out a fresh towel. Bob stands under the hot water and lets himself drift for a second, but he can’t linger. He washes quickly with a palmful of bodywash, rubs it over his hair as well, rinses his mouth with the hot water.

Then, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, he goes downstairs. Dave is eating toast and reading a newspaper. The radio is on. Dave looks up. “Everything okay?” he says.

“Yes,” says Bob, hesitating in the doorway. “I’ve got to go.”

Dave gets up and comes over. “Okay,” he says, “if you’re sure.” He puts a hand on Bob’s arm, and that feels good. 

“Yeah,” says Bob. “I’ve got to go home first.”

“Of course,” says Dave. He runs his hand up Bob’s arm, to his neck, runs the back of his fingers along his jaw. Bob tilts his head into the touch and Dave smiles. “Thanks for staying,” he says.

“Um,” says Bob. 

Dave pushes his hand into Bob’s hair, tips his face up and kisses him. “It’s okay,” he says. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” says Bob. “It was.”

It’s so calm here, so quiet, he doesn’t want to go. The thought of the Speeler, even of driving round with One Two and Mumbles … he shakes himself. “Thank you,” he says, turning for the door. “Can I call you?”

“Of course, Bob.”

He stands on Dave’s doorstep in the quiet morning, the trees in the street dripping, the tarmac shining as the sun hits it, and takes a deep breath before going to his car. He gets in and pulls out his phone. There’s a text from One Two. “Where are you?”

He calls him. “D’you want me?” Smiling to himself at what One Two will make of that. “No!” says One Two. “Yes. Get over here. Archy’s got something for us.”

“Give me an hour,” says Bob, starting the car and hanging up before One Two can get going.

Back at his place, the kids are hanging out in the street and someone’s playing his music too loud. His flat is untidy and there’s no bread in the kitchen. He changes and goes back out. He’ll have to grab something to eat later.

The Speeler is quiet when he walks in. Mumbles reading the paper and drinking a coffee. One Two talking on the phone.

“Where the hell did you get to, Bob?” he says when he hangs up.

“None of your business,” says Bob. 

“Leave him alone,” says Mumbles. 

“Okay, don’t have a fit,” says One Two, holding up his hands. “Right,” let’s get going, Archy wants us to …” Bob’s not really listening to the details as they walk back down to the car. He drives where he’s told. “Oi, Bob!” says One Two from the back seat, cuffing him lightly, “where are you, mate?”

“Nowhere,” says Bob, “not listening to you, though.”

“Been busy with Bertie, have you?” says One Two, putting a sing-song on ‘Bertie’.

“That fucker,” says Bob. “Nah. We got what we wanted there. What a prick.”

“Right. These posh types, eh,” says One Two, settling back in his seat. 

Mumbles glances across at him, shrewd look in his eyes. Yeah, Mumbles doesn’t miss much.

Whatever it was that Archy wanted, Bob stays in the car while One Two and Mumbles go inside.

He pulls out his mobile. He wants to text Dave, but he’s not sure if that will be okay. He does it anyway.

“Glad i stayed”. And he is. Once he got over his terror. Waking up was good. He hadn’t wanted to stay longer this morning, but waking in the quiet, talking to Dave, was good. Maybe next time he won’t have to roll away. He’s surprised how eager he is for the next time.

He doesn’t get a text before One Two and Mumbles get back in the car. He slips his phone in his pocket. Much later, he feels it buzz against his thigh and when he gets a chance to look, Dave has replied. “So am I.” His stomach flutters. But there’s no time to think about that, One Two has them driving all over on Archy’s errand. Finally they’re done. He drops Mumbles and One Two at the Speeler, shrugs off One Two’s questioning look and “Where you off to Bob?” when he says he’s not coming in. He wants to go home, wait to see if Dave gets in touch. He can’t just go round again. Dave said it was okay, but he doesn’t think it’ll be okay all the time. He is almost home when his phones buzzes with a text. 

“Hi. I’m not at home tonight. Sorry.” He tries not to be disappointed. They didn’t make any plans, after all. 

His flat is chaotic, after the calm of Dave’s place. He tidies up a bit, strips off his bed and then goes out for bread and milk. As he’s walking back from the shop, his phone rings.

“Hi,” says Dave. “You alright?”

“Sure. Yeah. Why?”

“Geez, Bob. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Sorry. How’re you?” _Fuck, he’s not very good at this_.

“I’m fine,” says Dave. “I’m sorry about tonight. It’s not something I can get out of. Wish I could.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Bob doesn’t know what to say next.

“What are you doing tonight then?” says Dave.

“Not much. Might watch a match. Fuck, Dave, I’m shit at this.”

Dave laughs. “You’re okay. Who’s playing?”

“Spurs-Liverpool. I think. I dunno. I just watch whatever.”

“Bob!” Dave says in an outraged tone, “How can you say that?” 

“Why?” Bob is startled into a laugh.

“Don’t you know it’s Bolton Wanderers or nothing?”

“Bolton Wanderers?” he snorts.

“Watch it, Bob,” says Dave, but he’s laughing. “I can’t help it if I was born there, can I?”

Bob unlocks his flat door. “Sorry,” he says, laughing too. “That’s tough.”

“Well, yes,” says Dave. “Nothing will get me to be disloyal though. Even now.” 

There’s a silence. 

“Listen, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to say hi.” His voice has gone soft. “You have a good evening, Bob.”

“Yeah, thanks. You too,” says Bob. He’s smiling even after Dave hangs up.

He’s putting clean sheets on the bed later when he gets a text. “Who won?”

He texts: “Spurs, 1-0 boring match”

“Sorry. Boring meeting”

He wonders why such a mundane exchange is making him grin so hard.

“What are you doing tomorrow”, he dares.

“Nothing. Come over?”

“RU sure”

His phone rings then. Dave’s number.

“Hello,” he says. 

“Bob,” says Dave, “I won’t ask you to come over if I’m busy, you know. Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay. Sorry. Yes. Can I stay again?” His heart is banging with nerves at saying that.

“Oh, Bob. Of course you can if you want.”

“Yes. Thank you.” 

“Okay then. I’ll see you ’round seven again. If that’s alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Great. Seven.”

“I’ve got to go. Drive home. Good night, Bob.” He can hear the smile in Dave’s voice. Imagines what he looks like.

“Yeah. Bye,” he says.

He gets into bed still smiling.

**

But the next day is a total fuck-up. At 7.30 Dave texts: “Where are you?”

He can’t even reply till eight and anyway, what’s he going to say? Sorry, can’t come now, me and my gang are dealing with a scary mob boss? 

He types: “Stuck at work”

“Sorry”

And this is why it’s easier not to get involved. How can anyone else understand his crazy life?

His phone buzzes. “I was worried. Come later?”

He better not promise. “i’ll try”

“Okay. See you”

But it’s 11 before he’s finally driving away from One Two’s place. He can’t go over now and anyway he’s so exhausted the thought of going all the way over there is just impossible.

He lets himself into his dark flat. Realises it’s 10 hours since he ate and makes toast before falling into bed.

**

He’s woken by his phone. It’s early.

“Yeah?” 

“Bob? Are you alright? Why didn’t you at least call?”

Dave doesn’t sound angry. Really.

“Yeah. It was really late. I didn’t want to wake you. Sorry.”

“You couldn’t even text?”

“Ah jeez Dave! No. I couldn’t. Sorry. I told you. That I’d be shit at this.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go off the deep end.” Dave’s voice is sharp.

“Sorry.”

“Ah Bob. Stop saying sorry.”

“Sorry. What else can I say?”

Dave laughs. “Want to try again?”

“What?”

“Come over tonight?”

“Really?”

“Yes. But let me know if you can’t.”

“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”

“Okay. Have a good day.”

“Yeah. You too.”

“Bye, Bob.” Dave’s voice has gone soft.

“Yeah. Bye.”

Bob can hardly believe his luck.


	6. Friday evening

**Friday evening**

Fortunately, there’s nothing on, just a boring day of sitting around, and he gets out as soon as he can. Goes home quickly and showers. It feels weird, but he shoves a clean shirt, clean pants and his toothbrush into a carrier bag. His stomach clenches a bit as he walks to his car holding the bag. He wants to stay in Dave’s bed again, but his nerves haven’t gone away. 

When he rings the doorbell, his pulse is pounding and he can hardly breathe. He looks around at the quiet street and is a bit startled when the door opens. He crowds up against Dave in the doorway.

Now Dave is startled. “Hello!”

“Thank god,” he says, his face in Dave’s neck. “Hello.” Pulling back a bit. 

“Hello.” Dave laughs, his hands at Bob’s back, slipping up to the back of his neck. Bob closes his eyes, breathes in. Dave is in a T-shirt and trackies. His after-work clothes. He tips Bob’s head up, kisses him. “Come in,” he says.

Bob puts the carrier down by the door. Dave notices but he doesn’t say anything.

When they both have a beer, leaning against the kitchen counter, Dave says, “I don’t need to know about yesterday. But I did worry. Just so you know.”

“Yeah,” says Bob. “Things got busy. I’m not used to …”

“Anyone caring where you are?”

“Yeah. Unless they need me to do something.”

“How does it feel?”

Bob moves his hand so it touches Dave’s. “I don’t know. Nice. I think.”

“Good,” says Dave. They stand in silence for a few minutes.

Bob becomes aware of a very good aroma. “What are you cooking?”

“There’s a chicken in the oven,” says Dave. “Want to help?”

“Okay,” says Bob. “What?”

Dave hands him a handful of carrots and a peeler. Bob tries, he does, but there must be a knack he doesn’t have. Dave looks over. 

“You okay?”

“Sure. It’s just …” The peeler skids off the end of the carrot.

“Bob, have you never …?”

“No. Okay?” He hunches his shoulders. “My mum used a knife. When she was around to cook.”

“She wasn’t, much?”

“Nah. She was at work. Or down the pub. Or out with some guy. She didn’t do roast chickens.” He’s not sure why he’s telling all this to Dave. He doesn’t want to know Bob’s entire stupid childhood, probably. 

“Right,” says Dave. He comes over behind Bob, reaches round and takes his hands, turns them a bit so the peeler makes better contact with the carrot. “There you go,” he says. 

Bob swallows. Leans back into Dave. “Thanks.”

He finishes the carrots and hands them to Dave. “Thanks. Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll be done in a second,” Dave says.

Bob sits on the sofa, enjoying the quiet, the sound of the oven door opening, the carrots falling into a pot, water running into it.

“I can bake scones,” he says. He’s not sure where that came from. He doesn’t want Dave to think he’s hopeless, useless.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Bob. “This old lady, my friend’s mum, taught me.” He thinks back to those days in One Two’s mum’s kitchen, when One Two had been sent down and Bob was going round to visit her. When she showed him how to rub the butter and flour between his fingers and pat the dough gently flat and cut out the circles. Sitting waiting for them to bake and then eating them, straight from the oven with jam and cups of tea. “Yeah,” he says.

“I like scones,” says Dave, coming over and sitting down. “You’ll have to make them for me some time.”

“Okay,” says Bob.

Dave puts his arm up on the sofa back. Bob tips his head against it. He likes that Dave doesn’t ask too many questions. That he lets Bob say as much as he wants to and doesn’t make him say more.

“My mum used to make good scones,” says Dave. “I think all Yorkshire women are born knowing how to make scones.”

“My friend’s mum was Scottish,” says Bob.

“Them too,” says Dave.

Dave gets up, goes back over to the kitchen. “Should be done by now,” he says. He opens the oven door, releasing even more of the smell of the roasting chicken.

“Do you always cook?” says Bob.

“What? No, sometimes I’m too knackered. Or it’s late. I get takeaways,” says Dave. “But I like to cook, if I have time.”

“It’s a lot better than takeaways,” says Bob. Dave glances over at him. Even though he doesn’t say anything, Bob thinks he knows what Dave is thinking, about how Bob’s life is. What would he say if he knew how it really is?

“I’ll make the gravy. You can set the table,” says Dave, and another memory rises up, of Christmas at his Nan’s flat, when Bob was little. His mum and his Nan and Bob wearing paper hats, laughing, pulling crackers. After his Nan died, his mum made an effort some years, but most years she didn’t seem to care very much. Christmas dinner was the time when you sat at the table, and the telly wasn’t on. Other days, you ate with your plate on your lap, watching telly. Dave eats at the table. He’s got a big telly, but it hasn’t been turned on when Bob has been over. 

“Okay,” says Bob. He knows which drawer the knives and forks are in, from before. He gets them out and lays them on the table. Dave is stirring something at the stove and Bob goes over to look, standing next to Dave and brushing his hand across his arse.

“Oi,” says Dave, “careful!” But he’s grinning and he bumps his hip into Bob’s.

The chicken is rich and delicious, with crisp skin. Dave has done proper crunchy roast potatoes, and the carrots Bob peeled are not too soft. “Did Delia teach you this?” says Bob, grinning.

“My mum and my granny, really.”

“My Nan did it at Christmas, too.”

They eat in silence then, until Dave says, “You grew up in London?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been anywhere. We went to the seaside sometimes, when I was a little kid. My mum wasn’t much good at being a mum.” _Why did he say that? Will Dave pity him?_

“Well,” says Dave, “it’s tough, I suppose. I was lucky.”

“Why did you become a builder?” Bob wants to shift away from his pathetic childhood. He doesn’t want Dave to think he’s the sad kid he was. He’s not. Anymore.

“My dad was a builder. Brickie. He got me a job when I left school.”

“But now you own your own company, in London.”

“I moved down here after … my wife left me.” 

“Wife?” Bob can't help it. He’s startled. 

“Yes. I got married far too young. I didn't know … I didn’t know … that I didn't have to.”

“So, are you …?”

Bob has never seen Dave unsure. It’s unsettling. 

“I’ve not met another woman I want to be with. So I don't know.” Dave reaches for Bob’s hand. “Bob?”

“Everyone just thinks they know you. But they don’t know you. At school … they just think you like girls. I never told anyone.”

“Yeah. I never told anyone, either. But my wife knew, somehow. We were too young anyway. Living just round the corner from our families. We both wanted to have fun. Just not with each other, I suppose.”

“She left you?” Bob doesn't know why this feels important, but it does. Not like his dad, he thinks.

“She was the brave one. We both knew it wasn't going to work. She left and so I left too. Came to London. My second boss liked me. Helped me start on my own. Gave me jobs he didn't have time for.”

“And then? Blokes?” Dave’s not looking right at him; sort of off to the side. Or backwards, or something.

“I found out about bars where I could meet blokes. I never knew of one, up north.”

“So that’s what you do? Pick up guys in bars? That’s what this is?”

“What? No!”

“But that _is_ what you did. With me.”

“Yes. But I wanted to see you again.” He’s looking straight at Bob now.

“Even after it was so shit. After I was so ...” It’s not a question. “Why, Dave?” He looks down at the table, runs his finger along the edge, up and down, to distract himself.

“You weren't shit, you know.”

Bob snorts.

“Well, yeah. It was pretty bad. You said you were scared. So was I.”

“You? Why were _you_ scared?”

“Because I really liked you, Bob. I really like you.”

He looks up at Dave then. “Me too,” he says. He stops running his finger along the table and they sit in the silence together, Dave rubbing his thumb across the back of Bob’s hand. Bob can hear his heart beating. He wonders if Dave can too.


	7. Friday night

**Friday night**

Bob really wants to go upstairs, but he won’t suggest it, yet. It's better if he doesn't, he thinks.

After a few minutes, Dave says: “Let’s just clean up here and then … we can go up. If you want.” He gives him a funny look, and Bob’s suddenly sure he’s not the only one whose heart is beating too loud.

Bob stands up and picks up the plates, carries them to the sink. He turns on the hot tap and looks around for the Fairy Liquid. “It’s under the sink,” says Dave. He’s at the counter doing something to the chicken. 

Bob’s good at washing dishes. He even likes it. He’d never tell the guys that. He washes the plates, then waits for the pots as Dave finishes with them. It doesn't take long before he’s drying his hands on the tea towel. 

“D’you want a cup of tea?”

He remembers that question. “Yes, please.”

Dave smiles at him. He’s got a nice smile. Straight teeth, not like Bob’s. “Okay.” 

He goes over to stand behind Dave as he waits for the kettle to boil. Slips his arms around him, crowds up, but he doesn’t push, just lays his cheek against Dave’s shoulder. Dave reaches for his hand. The kettle clicks off. Bob steps back while Dave makes two mugs of tea. 

When they’re sitting on the sofa, Dave brings his hand up to the back of Bob’s neck, his thumb rubbing in slow circles, his fingers in his hair. It doesn't feel like too much, tonight. 

“’S nice,” says Bob.

“It is,” says Dave. “Not too much?” 

“No,” says Bob, “I like it. It was too much, before. I’m okay now.” And it’s true. 

“No one has, before?” says Dave. 

“No,” says Bob. “Not really.” 

“My dad was a bluff Northern bloke, but he did hug us kids. Maybe that’s why I got the habit.”

Bob rubs his head into Dave’s hand. Then he leans forward and drinks his tea. Dave’s also finished. “Now?” says Bob, “can we?” He stands up and reaches down for Dave's hand, pulls him up, against his chest, and kisses him, hard, demanding. He thinks it’s okay, but his heart is beating fast. It’s hard to know what Dave wants. What he likes. What he wants Bob to do. Dave kisses him back. His hands slip to Bob’s arse.

“Yes,” he says. “Let’s go up.”

Bob grabs his carrier as they walk through the hall. Dave smiles again. “You came prepared,” he says.

“Yes.” He’s pretty sure it’s okay.

“That’s good,” says Dave. “D’you want a shower?”

“Will you shower with me?” The shower is big, so that won’t be a problem. He’s showered next to One Two at the gym. He tried not to look, too much. He wants to look, now.

“Yeah, okay,” says Dave. “If you want.” He seems a bit surprised, though.

“Yes, I do.” Bob grins at him, trying to make him understand it’s a bit of fun. He’s not used to being so serious all the time. The guys down the Speeler are never serious for long, it’s all stupid jokes and big stories. He’s not sorry he’s told Dave the things he has, though. It feels good to have someone else know. 

The towel he used the other morning is still hanging on the rail in the bathroom. Bob starts to unbutton his shirt, but Dave stops him, takes over. He runs his hands over Bob’s chest, down his arms. Bob reaches for the hem of Dave’s T-shirt and tugs it over his head. He has more hair on his chest than Bob. He rubs his hands through it, scratching lightly, tugging. 

Dave unbuckles Bob’s belt, pulls it free, and undoes his fly. He slips his hand into his jeans. Bob shivers as he cups his cock. He’s breathing hard. Dave pushes his jeans down, slides his hands into his pants, across his arse. Bob’s hips are twitching and his hands are gripping Dave’s biceps. He closes his eyes, drops his head back. Dave’s mouth is on his throat, on the soft skin over his collarbone. Dave’s stubble scratches lightly, but his mouth is soft. “You’re lovely,” Dave murmurs. No one has ever said anything like that to Bob before; his breath hitches. Dave kisses him on the mouth again, and Bob is shaken out of his trance. He nips at Dave’s mouth, pushes his hands into his trackies, shoves them and his pants down his hips. “God!” he says. He looks down, to where their hips are flush together, their cocks grinding. “Fuck!”

Dave laughs. “We were going to shower,” he says. 

“Mmmm,” is all Bob can say, pulling Dave closer. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Dave rubs his hand up from Bob’s arse, up his back, spreading it over his shoulder. “Okay, then.” He steps back, leans over and turns on the taps. Steam billows out of the shower. “In you get,” he says, giving Bob a little push and stepping in after him. The hot water feels good, and Bob bends his head, lets it cascade down his back. Dave steps up behind him, reaches round, and Bob wiggles his bum against him. “Mmmm,” he says, “you feel good.”

But Dave reaches for the shower gel, soaps Bob’s chest, his shoulders, his back, under his arms, his stomach. The scent is sharp and fresh. Bob closes his eyes again, bending his neck. The soap washes off and Dave closes his hand round Bob’s cock. He’s so hard, and he can feel Dave’s cock at his arse as he grinds back. But what he wants now, more than Dave’s hand, even, is Dave. Inside him.

He’s not done that, before. Fucking like that, it’s not something you can do in the toilets at a club. Or behind the bike sheds at school.

He’s not sure how to tell Dave, though. So he just says it. “Want you to fuck me.” His voice comes out rough.

Dave turns him round. Bob doesn't really want him to look at him, but he knows by now he can't avoid it. Dave steps them back, so they are out of the spray. Bob lifts his eyes. 

“If that’s what you want.”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever?”

“No.”

“I don't, that often.”

“Really? I thought …”

“That everyone does it? You’d be surprised.”

“If you don't want to …” Bob tries to swallow his disappointment.

“I didn't say that, Bob. I’d love to. Both ways, if you want. But you don’t have to. It can be overwhelming. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I want you to. Please?” His voice sounds small, pleading. He hates begging for anything. He wouldn’t, with anyone else.

“Alright.”

Bob shivers, and Dave moves them under the spray again, briefly, before turning off the taps and grabbing the towels. “You kept it for me,” says Bob.

“Of course,” says Dave.

Bob dries himself, watching Dave. They clean their teeth, standing side by side. Bob hangs back to use the loo.

In the bedroom, Bob stands by the bed, uncertain what to do. Dave opens the bedside drawer and takes out lube and condoms, and another bottle. The duvet is pulled down and there’s a towel spread on the mattress. “Get into bed, Bob,” he says. He runs his hand down Bob’s chest, pushing lightly. Bob sits down, looks up at Dave. His breath is shaking. 

“Shh,” says Dave, running his hand down Bob’s cheek, tipping his chin up, leaning down and kissing him. “You tell me to stop if it’s too much, eh?”

“Okay,” says Bob. His knee is bouncing and he pushes down on it. He wants this, but he is terrified.

“Lie down,” says Dave. His voice is quiet. “On your tum.”

Of course. Bob does it, looking over his shoulder at Dave, who climbs on the bed, straddling Bob’s legs. He runs his hands down Bob’s back, his builder’s calluses rubbing slightly. He sits back on his heels and Bob hears a bottle being opened. Dave’s hands return, slippery with oil. He pushes into Bob’s shoulders, his thumbs digging in either side of his spine.

“Just relax,” says Dave, his hands sweeping firmly down Bob’s back, over his arse, up his sides and back, over and over. Gradually, his hands are on Bob’s arse more than on his shoulders, his fingers at his bum crack. That feels … Bob can't decide. It feels sort of good, but it also makes his stomach clench a bit. 

“You okay, Bob?” says Dave, not pausing in his rhythm.

“Um, yes,” says Bob.

“You sure?” 

“I think so.” Now his stomach is clenching properly. He lets out a breath; it comes out shakier than he hoped.

Dave gets off Bob, lies down next to him, pushes on his shoulder to get him to roll onto his side, runs his hand, as he has so often done, down Bob’s cheek, tipping his chin and kissing him. Bob gasps and kisses back. He feels almost as if he can't catch his breath. He grabs for Dave’s shoulder and hangs on.

“Oh, Bob.” Dave’s voice is soft, _kind_.

“I do want to. Really,” says Bob. “I'm okay. I'll be okay.”

“But you’re nervous,” says Dave. “I was, my first time. Everyone is, I think. I want it to be good. I hope I can make you feel amazing. But you might hate it. Some guys do.”

Bob doesn't want to be one of those guys. But he can't deny how his stomach is fluttering. He nods. “Okay. But can you please …” He turns back onto his stomach. Dave strokes his hand down his arse, between Bob’s legs, trails it back up, fingers brushing his hole. _Oh god._

Dave straddles his thighs again, leans across to where he put the lube. The sound of the lid clicking open is loud, the squirt is wet and rude. Bob can’t help it, he giggles. Dave does too. 

Then his hand is back, fingers slippery. Bob can feel one finger, circling, dipping in. It feels … very weird. His body is fighting it. “Just breathe, Bob,” Dave soothes, his other hand on the small of Bob’s back, fingers spread wide, grounding him. Bob turns his head to look at Dave, smiles at him; it feels a bit wobbly.

Dave’s finger sinks deeper. And now, _oh god, now, suddenly!_ “Dave!” 

“Bob?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Bob pushes his arse up to meet Dave. He feels invaded, but that’s what he sort of wanted to feel. Taken over. Dave bends and kisses his way down Bob’s spine. He crooks his finger a bit and _oh god fuck_ Bob feels like he’s going to explode from sensation. 

“God, Bob,” Dave murmurs. He slides his finger out. “More?” he says, circling with two fingers. Bob just nods. He’s panting, rutting against the sheets. Dave’s other hand soothes down his back and he sinks two fingers into Bob’s arse. He gasps, it’s too much, it hurts. But he focuses on breathing and he can feel himself relaxing, opening. He’s eager for Dave’s cock, but he thinks, with the tiny part of his brain that still can, that he isn't ready yet. So he pushes up to meet Dave’s hand again. 

“Get up on your knees,” says Dave. His hand is on Bob’s shoulder and he pushes it down. It feels almost like being held down, face on the mattress, arse in the air. But this is Dave, he trusts him, he said to say stop if he needed to, so it’s not _too_ scary. He asked for this, after all. 

Dave kneels up behind him, hands on his arse again. He pushes two fingers in again and the angle has changed; it feels different, easier. Bob’s body has stopped fighting now. Dave reaches round to Bob’s cock, which is aching he’s so hard. And now he’s so awash in sensation, he’s panting, thrusting his arse up, his cock into Dave’s hand. He’s going to come and Dave hasn't even fucked him yet. “Dave?” he asks. “Don't you …?”

“Don't worry, Bob,” says Dave. He scissors his fingers open in his arse, and brushes his thumb over the tip of Bob’s cock. Bob comes with a shout he tries to stifle in the pillow. “Christ! Fuck! Fuck!” He can feel his arse clenching down on Dave’s fingers. He feels full, and empty, all at once, and he’s shaking, and shaking.

Finally, he comes back into his mind. His body calms. “Ah, fuck, Dave,” he sighs. He drifts, till he feels Dave pulling his fingers out and it feels so odd, so abandoned, his breath hitches. “Don’t,” he gasps, and it’s almost a sob. “I wanted you to fuck me,” he says, his voice tiny.

“Oh, Bob,” says Dave, his voice tender, “Bob.”

Bob has collapsed, still face down. Dave comes to lie next to him, pushes his shoulder again. Bob flops onto his back. Tears run out of the corners of his eyes. He’s not crying, really. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck! Why?” he says. 

“You’re overwhelmed. It’s very intense, I think. It always is.”

“But, you?” says Bob.

“Plenty of time for that,” says Dave. Bob glances down. Dave is hard. Of course he is. 

“Do you want …? I want …”

“Of course,” says Dave. “Shh.” He brushes his thumb under Bob’s eyes, leans down and kisses him, slowly, deeply, tenderly.

Dave straddles him again, his hands on the bed at Bob’s shoulders. He dips his head, kisses a trail down Bob’s chest. “Is this okay? Not too much? We can stop if it is.”

“Yes. No. Don’t stop.” He brings his hands to Dave’s shoulders, down his back, across his arse.

“Mmm, Bob,” says Dave. He kneels up and reaches for a condom and the lube. He hands the condom to Bob. “Will you?” he says. 

Then he’s looming over Bob. He tugs his legs around his waist. This is quite different from being held down, however gently, on his knees. Bob looks up into Dave’s face, almost has to look away. He swallows. Nods.

“Okay?” says Dave. 

Bob nods again. “Okay,” he says. It's almost a whisper. “Yes.” He rolls the condom on.

“Give me your hand,” says Dave, reaching for the lube again. Bob opens his hand, receives a cool blob of the stuff. “Okay,” says Dave, glancing down. Bob slicks his cock, and it feels good to do something, not just take. He gives a little twist of his wrist. “Careful,” says Dave, dropping his own hand back to Bob’s arse. “Alright?” he says.

“Yes,” says Bob, and Dave sinks two fingers slowly in, the angle different again. And it’s easier than before. The slow slide of Dave’s fingers, the way he’s looking at Bob. Bob’s not thinking, just feeling. Dave drags his hand away. “Now?” says Bob.

“Soon.” Dave’s hand is big, his fingers blunt and wide, and Bob is used to the feel, now. But then, Dave returns, even bigger. Bob’s hands scrabble on the mattress, trying to grab a hold. He pants, trying to breathe through it.

“Too much?” says Dave, wrapping his other hand round Bob’s hip. Bob shakes his head, but he has to bite his lip to distract himself from the burning stretch. And then Dave twists his hand, and touches that place inside Bob and now he wants _more_.

“Now, please?” he says, “now!”

Dave nods. Slides his fingers out. Leans down and kisses Bob again. He leans back up, and now he takes his cock in hand and it’s pushing at Bob’s arse and Bob tries to relax, he wants this, and Dave says “Just breathe” and he does and then … _oh fuck!_ Dave’s inside him and it feels totally different from his hand. He has to close his eyes. Dave isn’t moving. Bob opens his eyes and looks up at him. He’s glad he can see Dave’s face. “Okay love?” says Dave. He’s never said that before. Bob nods. His heart is crashing wildly. Dave is leaning on one hand and he brings the other to Bob’s face, pushes his thumb into his mouth. Bob drags in a huge breath and nods again. “You can …” he tries to say. Dave understands even though his voice doesn’t work. He starts moving again, a slow thrust that feels relentless. Bob feels completely taken over.

But it’s not frightening anymore.

He arches up to meet Dave, chasing as he pulls back, only to return, deeper. If before was overwhelming, now is beyond it. Beyond any sensation Bob has ever felt. There is an edge of pain, but it keeps him from spinning out of control completely. Dave is staring very intently at him and that feels almost as overwhelming. There’s nowhere to hide, body or mind.

Dave is panting. The sound of both their breaths is loud, their skin slaps together as Dave starts to move faster. “Okay?” he gasps, and Bob can only groan. He tightens his thighs around Dave’s hips, his hands trying to grab at the sheet. Dave is moving faster and faster, until “Christ, Bob!” and he’s shaking above Bob and Bob reaches up and grabs his shoulders and hangs on and rides Dave’s orgasm with him and his arse is clenching down again and now he’s coming too. 

Dave gasps his name again, but Bob is wordless, his breath heaving, shuddering, sobbing out of his mouth. He closes his eyes. Dave touches his forehead to Bob’s, still holding himself up. Bob slides his hand to the back of Dave’s head and holds them together until Dave’s arms start to shake and he lowers himself onto Bob’s chest. He’s soft now, but he hasn’t pulled out, almost as if he doesn’t want their intense connection to end. Bob’s glad this shattered feeling isn't just his.

But then his stomach starts to flutter. He wanted to be … controlled, but now he can feel a sort of panic. “Dave?” he says. His voice is a cracked whisper. Dave lifts his head and maybe he can see something in Bob’s eyes. He raises himself up again, his cock slipping out of Bob’s arse. Bob feels empty, his breath catches in a sob and he wipes at his eyes. “Love?” says Dave. Bob shakes his head, he can’t look at him. Dave gets off the bed and Bob hears him leave the room, hears the toilet flush and water running. He’s got himself more under control when Dave comes back and sits on the edge of the bed. He hands him a facecloth. Bob just holds it limply, too overcome by exhausting emotion to do anything. Dave takes it back, nudges Bob onto his side and wipes the cloth between his legs. Bob flinches with embarrassment and Dave runs his hand down his side, along the dip of his waist, to his hip. “Hey,” he says, “shhh.” Bob rolls onto his back, and Dave folds the cloth and cleans his stomach. He takes the towel away. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table and Dave hands it to Bob. He is terribly thirsty and he leans up and drinks in huge gulps. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a little steadier. 

Dave gets into the bed and pulls the duvet up. He lies on his back and doesn't reach for Bob, but Bob shuffles closer and turns on his side, towards Dave. “Thank you,” he says again, reaching out for Dave’s shoulder. Dave’s big, rough hand comes down over Bob’s and he switches off the lamp. “Good night, love.”

Bob feels his breath quiver at that. “Good night,” he says. He’ll think about it tomorrow.


	8. Saturday

**Chapter eight, Saturday**

The room is bright when Bob wakes up. Dave is leaning against the headboard reading a book. He looks over. “Morning,” he says, smiling. 

“Morning,” Bob tries to say. His voice is hoarse. “Whassatime?” 

“Nine.” Dave pushes his hand through Bob’s hair. “It’s Saturday, remember.”

Saturday. A week. Only a week. The second time he’s woken in Dave’s bed. But this time, Dave’s still here and there is no morning rush to hide behind. Will Dave want to talk about what they did last night, make Bob talk about it? 

“You hungry?” says Dave. “I could do with a proper breakfast.” 

“Um. Yeah. I am,” says Bob.

“Do you want to shower while I make it?” 

“Can I have a bath?”

Dave looks at him. “Oh Bob, of course. Come down when you’re ready.” He leans over and kisses Bob’s forehead. Gets out of bed and pulls on his trackies and T-shirt from last night and leaves the room.

Bob lies in bed for a few minutes more, listening to water start to run in the bathroom. He’s very glad to be left alone. 

He can't help groaning as he gets up. His muscles ache, and his arse hurts a bit. He’s not sorry though.

Asking for what he wants, and getting it. It doesn’t happen to him that often. With Bertie, he thought he was getting what he wanted, making Bertie do as he was told, but it turned out it didn’t change anything anyway, Bertie was still in charge, really.

The bathroom is full of steam, the bath nearly full. He winces as he eases into the hot water, and then just lies there, letting the heat soothe the aches. Last night comes back vividly. How nervous he’d been, until he wasn’t, even when Dave was pushing his shoulders down. All the different ways Dave had entered him and taken control. How he’d pushed Bob, but not further than he could stand. And more than what it felt like, how it made him feel.

“Bob?” Dave knocks on the bathroom door. “You okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m okay.” Bob must have drifted off. “I’m finished. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Breakfast’s almost ready though. You want coffee?”

Bob closes his eyes against the tears he can feel there. He’s been alone so long, since he was a little boy and his mum couldn’t cope with her own life, let alone his.

“Yes please,” he says, but his voice doesn’t work very well. He rubs his hand over his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Dave calls, and Bob can hear he’s going back downstairs. He lies back to wet his hair, washes quickly and stands up dripping to reach for the towel Dave kept for him because he knew he would be back. 

He thinks he looks normal when he steps into the big room downstairs, wearing the clean shirt he brought with him. Dave turns round from the stove. “Come and get some coffee, and I’ll dish up.”

He walks over and just leans into Dave’s shoulder. Dave brings his hand up to the back of Bob’s head. “Hey,” he says, “hello, love.” He lets Bob stand there, his face pressed up against him, without saying anything more. Dave hasn’t showered and he smells of last night. The kitchen smells of bacon and coffee. 

“Okay,” Bob says finally, “I’m okay.” He tries to step back, but Dave still has his hand on his head and tugs his hair gently, tips his face up and kisses him, lightly. “Yes,” he says, “that’s right.”

Bob laughs then. “I'm bloody starving!” he says. 

“Good,” says Dave, “I cooked a whole packet of bacon.”

“Oooh,” says Bob, putting a growl into his voice to make Dave laugh and break the intensity. He bumps his hip into Dave’s as he reaches for the coffee pot. “I want a huge bacon sarnie. Or two.”

They sit at the table with plates of bacon sandwiches and mugs of coffee. Bob groans as butter runs down his chin. Dave leans across and wipes it off with his thumb, licks it and grins at Bob. 

He's not sure what he expected the morning after to be like, but not this easy, teasing intimacy. He stretches his bare foot out, rubs it over Dave's foot. He can feel a silly smile stretching his mouth. He doesn't want this to end. 

“What do you usually do on a Saturday?” says Dave.

“I dunno. Clean up a bit, sleep, watch footie. Work, sometimes.”

“Go to a bar?” says Dave. 

“What? Hardly ever.” He doesn't really want to tell Dave why he was at that bar last week. “I don't really … not that there's anything wrong with it … I'm not very good at that.”

“I thought you did okay,” says Dave. “That was the first time I'd been in ages,” he says. “We both did okay. More than okay.” He smiles and Bob smiles in return.

“Yeah,” he says, “more than okay.” 

They go back to eating in silence.

“Do you have to go?” says Dave as he puts his empty mug down. “I’m just going to clean up, and watch football later. Just like you.”

Bob’s flat is a bit of a tip and he really should go there, but he doesn’t want to.

“I can stay,” he says. “If you like.”

Dave smiles. “If _you_ like,” he says, getting up and stacking their plates together. “Do you want to wash up while I hoover?”

Bob hates hoovering. “Sure,” he says, going over to the sink and turning on the taps. The fact that he now knows where the Fairy is kept makes him feel … he’s not sure, but it’s a good feeling.

The hoover is still running upstairs when he finishes the dishes. He goes up. Dave turns it off when he sees Bob. “Do you want to strip the bed so I can do the washing?” he says.

Bob sort of wishes they could get back into the bed with it still smelling of last night, but he can tell Dave won’t want to do that. Everything in his house is clean and orderly. He’s opened the window and sunlight and a breeze stream in. Dave switches the hoover back on out on the landing and Bob is left alone in the bedroom. He drags the duvet off the bed.

And remembers what it felt like to be on his knees there. 

He’s suddenly aware of silence and looks over his shoulder. Dave is standing in the doorway, looking at Bob. His expression is hard to read. A bit sad. 

“What?” says Bob.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Um, not really.” Bob can feel his face getting hot. “Not yet.” 

Dave nods. “Okay, love,” he says, going back out. The hoover starts again, and Bob pulls the sheet off the bed. 

Later, after Dave has gone out for groceries, leaving Bob on the sofa, where he falls asleep, after lunch in the garden, they watch a football match (not Bolton, since they fell down a division and aren’t on the telly). Dave is sprawled a bit on the sofa, and Bob puts his hand on his thigh, high on his thigh. He doesn’t do anything, but Dave opens his legs a bit more, and Bob’s hand slips round and Dave groans. 

“What are you doing to me, Bob?” he says.

Bob ducks his head, looks up at him sidelong. “What?” he says, rubbing his hand more firmly into Dave's crotch. “This?” Spreading his fingers, pressing into the muscle of his thigh. “This?” Dave shifts. “This?” Turning his hand, moving up from Dave’s thigh. He slides off the sofa onto his knees, shuffles between Dave’s legs. “This?” Both hands on Dave’s thighs, pushing. “This?” Rubbing his cheek upwards.

Dave turns off the television. “This,” he says, as Bob undoes his fly. “This,” he says, raising his hips so Bob can drag his jeans down. “This.” Pushing his hand into Bob’s hair.

Bob looks up then, checking. “This?” he says, pushing his face into Dave’s crotch, opening his mouth, breathing hot breath over his hard cock, still straining his briefs. 

“Mmm, this,” Dave sighs. So Bob pulls his cock free, takes him in. He takes his time, running one hand up the inside of Dave’s thigh, the other wrapped around the base of Dave’s cock. He’s in control, can go as slow or as fast as he wants, and he wants to go slow. Dave has his hands on Bob’s shoulders, digging in. His hands are strong, the hands of a man who does physical work. Bob’s never had hands like that on him before Dave. He flexes his shoulders, just to feel Dave’s grip tighten even more. Which doesn't make him feel less in control. That’s something to think about. Later. When he can think. And then Dave’s grip reverses, and he’s pushing at Bob’s shoulder, but Bob’s not going anywhere. He brings the hand that’s been on Dave’s thigh up, grips his wrist and holds on tight, his throat working. 

Afterwards, he stands up and gets out of his jeans and pants as quick as he can manage, kneels on the sofa straddling Dave’s lap, nudges his knees together and sits, leans in to kiss him, his own cock, so hard, trapped between their bodies, his mouth insistent. 

Pulling back, he says: “Your mouth. Please?” 

Dave nods. Laughs. “Not here, though. I'm not young enough for the floor, or this sofa.” It’s the first time either of them has referred directly to their age difference. Bob frowns. 

“No, love, hey!” says Dave, reaching out to push Bob’s hair off his sweaty face. “Stop it.”

Bob relaxes. “Yeah, okay,” he says, standing up and holding out his hand to Dave.

As they reach the stairs, he turns on the first one and kisses Dave. Usually he likes that he has to lean up, now he likes that they’re on the same level. Dave’s hands fall to his arse. “Come on,” says Bob, breaking away, twitching his hips forward. He turns, and Dave smacks him on the arse. “Up you go, then,” he says. 

He pauses in the bedroom doorway. Hard to believe that not even a week ago he was about to make a big mistake — and even that worked out okay. 

“Fuck!” he says, “I was such a dick last week. I'm sorry.” 

Dave gives him a push. “Not now,” he says, “hurry up, get in bed.”

“Yeah.” Bob laughs. He’s impatient for Dave's mouth. He pulls the duvet down and crawls onto the bed, turns to face Dave. 

He’s on safer ground than he was last night, but even so, it's different when it’s Dave, in bed, in the daytime, slowly. The last blowjob he got was from Bertie. He knows why he was so shit, last week. He wonders if he can tell Dave, properly. 

But he can't think now, can only feel. Dave’s hands are on his thighs and he spreads them wider, raising his hips, wanting more, groaning as Dave slips his fingers round, trailing up his crack. But they don’t go any further. Bob looks down at Dave, sees his minute head shake, his fleeting frown, knows he won’t get more now. And it doesn't matter, he’s too focused on the pleasure of Dave’s mouth, the glide of his tongue, to feel cheated. In that moment when he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to, Dave pulls off, leans back; Bob comes over his own stomach as Dave strokes him through his orgasm. Dave’s pushing at his shoulder all the other times makes sense now. “Sorry,” he says, “I don’t … I never have …” Bob tries to grab his hand, but he’s already standing up, and he knows he’s got to let him go.

When Dave returns with the inevitable facecloth, Bob takes it from him, cleans up. He doesn't ask. Everyone has something, he supposes. 

Dave gets into the bed, and Bob turns towards him. Something has shifted in him since last night, and now he feels he can do this. He shuffles closer, lays his head on Dave’s shoulder, tilts it back as Dave’s hand pushes into his hair. He can feel every muscle begin to relax, but before he falls too far, he leans up, kisses Dave, licking into his mouth. They don't say anything, now, but the promise is there.

The room is dark when he wakes, needing to pee. When he comes back in, Dave has also woken. Slipping back into bed, settling against Dave’s side, closing his eyes, he can say it.

“There was this rich fucker,” he says. “I thought I could … that he’d … it didn't turn out like I hoped.” He stops and relaxes into the slow brush of Dave’s hand up his chest. Dave doesn’t say anything. “Last week, when I … I’d just left there.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “His friends thought … and then you were there and I really liked you and—”

“It’s okay, Bob.” Dave’s hand is still stroking.

“Yes, but I want to tell you. Please can I tell you?” 

“Of course.” Dave moves as if to sit up, reaching for the lamp.

“No. Don’t?”

He brings his hand back to Bob’s chest. “Okay, love,” he says. 

And so, in the dark, Bob tells him. All the way back to One Two and beyond. He doesn’t tell him everything, of course. He’s not stupid and he’s not a grass or a tattletale, but he tells him. 


End file.
